


Airless Lungs and Peanut-Butter Tongue

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Badass Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medium Burn, Pining Jesse McCree, a bit of 'enemies' in there too but only for a hot sec, cranking the sap to 11, mutual appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: McCree is a charmer, quick-witted and silver-tongued. He's seen a lot in his life and there ain't much that can faze him.This doesn't explain how Hanzo keeps leaving him breathless and at a complete loss for words.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Ducking his head against the wind and rain, McCree lights his cigar and flicks the used match away into the gutter.

 

Ahead of him, shield aloft, Reinhardt forges a path down the soaked streets. His heavy steps cast shockwaves through the puddles; Tracer and Symmetra, sleek-footed as always, avoid them easily as they use his bulk to hide from the worst of the weather.

 

McCree draws in a warming lungful of smoke and glances over his shoulder, searching for the last member of their little team.

 

What he finds is this: the archer has come to a stop a good twenty paces back, stood still for some unfathomable reason in the middle of the road, squalling weather be damned. His head's tipped back, face raised to the storm-churned sky, his eyes serenely closed. The rain slips steadily down his cheeks, down his neck; washes over his bare arm and chest to fall dripping from his relaxed fingertips.

 

Something gives a familiar lurch in McCree’s chest. His breath hitches, catches on the smoke spilling from his lungs. He coughs.

 

The sound draws Hanzo’s attention. He turns and arches a brow as McCree bends over double and hacks up a lung.

 

“Are you quite alright?” he asks.

 

McCree holds up a thumb. “Peachy keen, darlin’,” he croaks, and takes another drag just to stubbornly prove his point. “How ‘bout you, ain’t you cold?”

 

“I am not warm.”

 

“You must be soaked through in that thing.”

 

“What, this?” Hanzo plucks at the collar of his sodden gi. McCree willfully resists the opportunity to oggle at the new skin the movement exposes. “Pah! I once had to meditate for hours beneath a freezing mountain waterfall. This drizzle is nothing.”

 

“Whoa. Really?” McCree blinks, then squints at the other man in suspicion. “..Nah. You’re shittin’ me.”

 

“Oh, I am, am I?” Hanzo huffs. “I did not realize you knew how to bind ancient spirits to your flesh. Obviously you must have more experience with such things than I.”

 

“Aw, gee…” McCree tries not to cringe as Hanzo stalks past. “Beg your pardon, Hanzo. I didn’t mean to offend.”

 

Hanzo glances back at him over his shoulder. His eyes are wide, guileless. There’s the tiniest little tremor in the corner of his mouth.

 

McCree zeroes in on it with all his laser focus. “Hold on now, wait a minute-”

 

Hanzo's lip ticks upwards a fraction.

 

“You are, ain’tcha! You’re messin' with me!”

 

The tremor spreads out into a wide smile and Hanzo chuckles, deep and hearty with mirth.

 

McCree bumps his shoulder. “Sly bastard. You had me worried there; thought I was bein' insensitive.”

 

“I could not resist,” Hanzo manages through his laughter. “Your face..!”

 

“Well, I'm happy as always to provide amusement.” McCree adjusts his hat, though by now it's doing little to keep him dry. “Guess that was all a bunch of bullhockey, then?”

 

Hanzo hums. “Not entirely. I did have to undergo strenuous training to prepare for the dragons, which included extensive meditation, but the family would never have risked their precious heir catching hypothermia.”

 

“Didn't you tell me they used to send you out to assassinate people? How's that not count as a risk?”

 

“I was older then. And that is different; if I had been killed performing my duties it would have been considered entirely my own fault.”

 

“Huh.” McCree shakes his head. “You know, the more I learn about your family, the less I think I understand 'em.” For some reason this makes Hanzo chuckle again. “What's got you in such a good mood, anyhow?”

 

Hanzo just shrugs. “I like the rain,” he says, and lifts his face back up to the sky, closing his eyes. McCree takes the opportunity to drink in the sight. He's still smiling, that loose lock of hair he can never keep in place draping wet over his brow. He’s drenched – they all are – but while McCree feels distinctly like a drowned dog Hanzo only looks like the lord he was raised to be: flushed as warm from his laughter as the air is cold, the shiver of goosebumps over his skin highlighted by the rain, glistening gold under the meagre streetlights.

 

Watching him, the covetous, lonely thing that lives in McCree’s chest constricts again. It's been rearing its ugly head more often recently. Defeated, he drops his cigar and smothers it in the wet. No point smoking. He’s breathless enough as it is.

 

One of these days, he tells himself, one way or another, he’s gonna have to do something about it.

 

* * *

  

Jesse McCree isn’t necessarily a loud man, though he wouldn’t blame you if you thought it to look at him. It’s part of the reason he dresses the way he does, after all. Larger than life. Put on a flashy enough front, not many people will bother trying to look past it.

 

He does have, he would confess, what they call the gift of the gab; his mother always said he was a charmer, and that has never changed in the almost thirty years it’s been since he lost her. He’s as quick-witted and quick-tongued as he is quick with his gun, and he’s seen a lot in his life. There ain’t much left in this world that can faze him.

 

None of which explains why Hanzo Shimada has the uncanniest ability to leave him at a complete loss for words.

  

* * *

  

The first time Hanzo knocked the air right out of him was completely literal.

 

Now, McCree isn't one for hasty decisions. While he's got a reputation for going off-plan, improvising tends to work in his favor because he's had to learn to think things through on his feet. He trusts his gut but isn't ruled by it, he keeps an open mind, and he takes no pleasure in stirring up tempers. His own anger is more of a slow-burn than an explosion. Acting rashly helps no one.

 

(He learned that one the hard way. Self-preservation is a very effective teacher.)

 

When Genji came to him, though, one blustery winter morning, and told him he was leaving for a spell, that he was hoping to return with his murderous brother in tow... well. May have been that ignited something in McCree pretty fierce. Something hot and sour and bitterly protective. Something that hungered for justice. May have been that he let some choice words slip, the fresh spring day a few weeks later when Genji came back with a solemn, frowning shadow at his side. And while at the time Hanzo took McCree's not-so-friendly welcome with stoic acceptance he definitely didn't forget it, so there may have been a tense month or so where the two of them were circling the waters, eyeing each other up with barely veiled hostility, just waiting for the other to make the first strike.

 

Or so McCree had felt.

 

It was unprofessional, he knew. This new Overwatch, such as it was, couldn't afford grudges or infighting – and besides, even if Jesse didn't fully understand (or didn't _want_ to understand) why, he knew Genji wanted his brother here with them. If Jesse were the one to drive Hanzo away for good he'd never forgive himself.

 

So he tried to be more accommodating. He really did.

 

Trouble was, those years Genji had spent finding himself and healing and striving for inner peace, McCree had spent roaming away from his problems instead of confronting them: touring America's dive-bars, getting tangled up in trouble he meant to avoid and being unfairly blamed for it, fighting off fellow bounty hunters – and worse, hangovers – and generally doing his best to keep his hat on his head, his head attached to his shoulders and his body more-or-less in one piece.

 

Not so much with the soul-searching.

 

So it may have been that, when he came across the archer doing katas alone in the gym one morning and made a offer to train together, his genuinely friendly intentions were soon trampled by spite. It only took a minute or so for their little sparring match to trip over the line into an actual fight.

 

It was McCree's fault. He doesn't use his left hand in training the way he does in a real brawl; the thing can tear steel, after all, and it's a lot tougher than your average bone. He doesn't spend his time at the gym looking to break noses. But Hanzo was a skilled, graceful fighter, a smart and capable asset to the team, and remained infuriatingly calm even now, with his blank face and his sharp eyes and his _stupid, fluffy ponytail--_ The anger roiling in McCree's gut just wanted to see him _snap._ Just once.

 

So he may have swung a wild left Haymaker as soon as he spotted an opening.

 

Hanzo only just dodged it. Something hot shifted behind his eyes. A spark. McCree's grin was a snarl.

 

And then they were fighting for real.

 

Much to McCree's frustration they were evenly matched. He had the height and weight advantage; Hanzo had the speed. McCree broke out moves he hadn't exercised in years but Hanzo kept up easily, staying mainly on the defensive but refusing to give ground, aggressive enough to keep McCree on his toes.

 

When McCree grappled him Hanzo shifted with his weight, gripped his right arm and twisted his wrist painfully, pivoting to elbow McCree in the face. With a growl McCree shoved him off and Hanzo stepped a few feet away, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. A beat, two – then he lunged, a quick sharp strike at the neck that would've hurt like hell if it landed. McCree blocked and used Hanzo's forward momentum to drag him into a punch which glanced off Hanzo's sculpted jaw. The impact snapped Hanzo's head to the side – and that was McCree's chance.

 

There was a neat move Reyes taught him in Blackwatch. McCree'd still been a skinny, mouthy little punk with more attitude than was good for him, and Blackwatch was a tough crowd. Reyes was probably fed up of having to drag him to medbay with bruises and a fat lip, so he personally gave a petulant McCree some self-defense lessons. Showed him a take-down that's rarely failed him. Catch an attacker's outstretched arm, hold their triceps and lay your forearm against their collar, then hook behind their ankle with your near foot. Kick out at the same time you push down on the shoulder and, so long as you do it fast enough, down they'll go, no matter their size. McCree even got it to work on Reyes himself once.

 

But Hanzo grabbed McCree's shirt and tensed – and somehow, with just a twist of the leg, instead of hooking Hanzo's ankle with his foot and tripping him, McCree was the one caught.

 

Hanzo spun and knocked McCree's leg out from under him. In the moment where McCree had no balance he struck, slamming the heel of his palm, with surgeon precision and Hulk-like strength, right into his solar plexus.

 

The next thing McCree knew he was sprawled out on the mats, blinking at the ceiling. He wheezed in a weak, shuddering breath and his whole body protested.

 

The mats dipped and shifted as Hanzo padded over. From this angle his bulk was terribly imposing, especially as he came to a stop by McCree's shoulder and stood above him with his arms crossed, frowning. For a wild moment McCree was flooded with fear-instinct images of those metal-capped heels stamping down on his throat, crushing his trachea to bloody little pieces--

 

Instead, Hanzo reached out his hand.

 

After a moment, McCree took it.

 

Hanzo pulled him easily to his feet and let go. He cleared his throat. “You fight well,” he said, as McCree braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath, still feeling the blow like a physical weight.

 

“I've gotten a touch rusty, apparently,” McCree rasped, beginning to wonder why Hanzo was still here. Why hadn't he just taken his undeniable victory and left? Was he sticking around just to gloat? “Haven't fought bare-knuckle in a long time.”

 

“I suppose you do not often need to,” said Hanzo, “given the skill you possess with your gun.”

 

“Huh?” McCree blinked at him, surprised. Was that a _compliment?_ “Er, yeah, I guess. I prefer to disable 'em with a shot before they get near enough.” He shook out his metal arm. “If I can't, a hit from lefty here usually does the trick. Most folks don't have reflexes like yours. Myself included.”

 

Hanzo grunted and picked a bit of dirt out from under his nail. “It comes from having trained every day since childhood,” he said, examining his knuckles.

 

“Right.” A bruise was blooming on Hanzo's cheek, another on his arm where McCree had gripped with his prosthetic. McCree's own mouth tasted of metal. A split lip, no doubt. The rush of adrenalin was fading fast, and with it going McCree realized all his anger was gone too, leaving only fatigue and a vague sense of guilt. He was too old to be picking fights. What was the point? “Yeah, Genji told me somethin' similar once. That y'all's childhood was, uh...”

 

Hanzo looked up, eyebrow raised.

 

“..intense.”

 

“'Intense'. Is that what he said.”

 

“Ah, well, not exactly.” McCree scratched his neck. Maybe saying this aloud had been a misstep. “He used rather more colorful phrasin', as I recall.”

 

Hanzo watched him intently for a few seconds before he snorted. He cracked his knuckles and dropped his arms, and, like an actor stepping off stage, all the tension fell loose from his body at once. “That does not surprise me,” he said. It was hard to tell if his tone was fond or annoyed. Perhaps both. “Genji was always...”

 

Curious, McCree waited for him to finish – he'd never heard the archer talk about his brother before – but Hanzo just shook his head.

 

“Regardless, I enjoyed this.”

 

“Really.”

 

“It was invigorating. You are a worthy opponent.”

 

Another compliment. McCree shifted his feet and scratched his nose. “Well, I appreciate that, but – let's be honest, I wasn't bein' particularly sportsmanlike.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Hanzo squared his shoulders again and raised his chin. “I am aware you have reservations about me. They are... understandable, given the circumstances.”

 

“Understandable, yeah, and far from unfounded. But – y'see–” McCree sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “Look, Hanzo, I'm gonna be frank with you. When you showed up here? I really wanted to hate you. I'll freely admit I've been lookin' for the very smallest excuse to write you off completely.”

 

This news didn't seem to surprise Hanzo, who just stood there watching him. His face was stone.

 

“ _But_ , Genji gave you a chance. And so far as I can tell, you haven't been wastin' it, so...”

 

“What is your point?”

 

“My point is you ain't what I expected. I've been doin' us both a disservice, actin' the way I have been. So, way I see it, I figure we should have a do-over. If you're amenable.”

 

The only change in Hanzo's mask was a flicker of wary confusion in his dark eyes.

 

McCree wiped off his palm on his sweatpants and held out his hand.

 

“The name's Jesse McCree. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, stranger.”

 

Wariness fading to bemusement, Hanzo slowly took his hand and shook. “Shimada Hanzo.” He let go and bowed – not low, but more than just a bob of his head. “You may call me Hanzo.”

 

“I'll do that.” McCree mimed tipping his hat. “Welp, I'd best go get cleaned up. I'll, uh, see you around, Hanzo.”

 

He made it halfway to the doors before Hanzo called after him. “McCree.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Hanzo trotted towards him. “You telegraph your moves.”

 

“..Excuse me?”

 

Hanzo gestured at his legs. “You shift your weight before you act. It makes you easy to read, if one knows what to look for.”

 

“Right.” McCree resisted the urge to fidget. The last time he'd heard comments like that was from Reyes, years and years ago. “Like I said, I'm rusty.”

 

“So it would seem. With practice, we can improve your speed, hone your reflexes. Or perhaps you could incorporate some feint maneuvers into your fighting style, turn an apparent predictability into an advantage–” His eyes flicked up to McCree's and he stopped, abruptly. “..That is, should you wish to spar again.”

 

McCree stroked his beard and considered the olive branch for what it was. “Tell you what,” he said, “you show me that bit of fancy footwork you caught me with, and you'll have yourself a deal.”

 

“Agreed.” Hanzo nodded at him and walked past. “But be prepared. I will not go easy on you, gunslinger.”

 

As he strode out the room McCree rubbed at his chest and winced. “Wouldn't dream of it, darlin'.”

 

It may have been a strange way to break the ice, but it worked. Things between the two of them got easier after that.

 

* * *

 

Miss Hana's first exchange with Hanzo was rather different than McCree's. When Genji introduced them, she gave the cyborg a shrewd, hard look, before turning a harder look on the archer, assessing. Whatever conclusions she drew must have been in his favor, because she then promptly bowed, stuck out her hand and challenged him to a duel in some game McCree'd never heard of.

 

He wasn't the only one visibly surprised when Hanzo took her right up on the offer.

 

They seemed an unlikely pair: the dour, taciturn, proud lone wolf, and the spitfire-bubblegum girl half his age, who could be blunt to the point of rudeness and was awful fond of back-talk. Still, she was the first among them to get close to him. His first few weeks in Gibraltar Hanzo had worn a tough outer shell at all times, but she seemed to have no trouble slipping past it – and he seemed happy to let her. He was softer around her. More open to others when he was in her company.

 

The first time Jesse saw Hanzo laugh – _really_ laugh – it was Hana's doing.

 

He found the two of them down in the range, huddled together and wearing eerily similar shit-eating grins.

 

“Hey Mac!” Hana waved him over as soon as she spotted him. “Come take a look at this!”

 

When he got near enough she shoved her phone in his face. Jesse found himself looking at what seemed to be some sort of Korean social media site. “What am I meant to be seein' here, exactly?” he asked, scrolling down a bunch of text he couldn't read until he reached some photos someone had posted. “Hold up, is this-?”

 

“Remember the recon mission in Numbani, when I got delayed and almost missed our evac?” Hana snatched the phone back and tapped a pink acrylic nail on the screen. “This is why. A crowd of autograph hounds recognized me and started harassing me. _Ajeossi_ had to pretend to be my bodyguard.”

 

Jesse eyed the pictures again. He had to admit, Hanzo certainly looked the part, with his dark clothes and sunglasses and the firm set of his jaw, the way he was shielding Hana with his arm outstretched.

 

Not to mention the muscles.

 

“So now the fan forums have gone wild with speculation,” Hana continued. “Everyone wants to know what the hot new bodyguard's deal is.” She smirked at a comment on her screen, elbowed Hanzo and giggled something at him in Korean – and that's when it happened.

 

Hanzo read the comment and burst into laughter. Deep belly laughter, with his head thrown back and his eyes all crinkled, and a smile that took ten years of stress off his face. Jesse had never seen him so unguarded. For a moment his lungs forgot how to work. His tongue became a useless lump, stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was all he could do to stare.

 

Hana seemed to take his silence as confusion. “They're basically saying Hanzo's a stone-cold fox,” she explained.

 

Hanzo snorted loudly. “Rather more graphic than that.”

 

“Like you're not secretly flattered,” Hana retorted. She tugged on the corner of Jesse's serape. “McCree, next time you should have a go being my bodyguard. I wanna see how my fans react to me hanging out with a real-life cowboy.”

 

Jesse found enough air in him to chuckle. “Think they'd be as complimentary of me if I did?”

 

Hana made a show of looking him up and down and wrinkled her nose. “Maybe? You're kinda rugged. Some people are into the whole... scruffy, never-seen-a-shower sort of thing. I guess you make it work.”

 

“Well thank you kindly,” Jesse said dryly, trying to ignore the weight of Hanzo's considering gaze as it fell on him. “I think.”

 

“You're welcome,” Hana chirped. She laughed to herself. “I'll have to recruit Reinhardt too. He'd love it. Then I can have a whole harem of bodyguard-uncles to do my bidding.”

 

Jesse caught Hanzo's gaze over Hana's shoulder. The archer's lips twitched into a small smile as he rolled his eyes, exagerrated. Jesse couldn't help but grin right back.

 

* * *

 

Each time it happened, it went something like this: he'd catch sight of the archer in training, distracted by the shift of muscle as he drew back his bow; or he'd see him meditating on the clifftops, his gold scarf shimmering in the sun; or he'd notice a glint of amusement in his pitch-dark eyes when they spoke – little things like that, nothing much, but for a second his brain would stutter, stuck on the image.

 

Jesse was fluent in two languages, had a decent understanding of a couple more, and knew enough to say 'please', 'thank you' and 'where's the bathroom' in several others. When moments like this happened, though, when Hanzo got his mind all tripped up on itself, he forgot all the words he knew in any of them. Even if he could remember he'd have no air left in his lungs to speak.

 

He didn't think much of it the first time. Nor the second, or even the third. McCree's eyes worked fine, after all – too well, some might say – and Hanzo was undoubtedly a very pretty thing to see. He was pretty when he scowled, pretty when he smiled, and even prettier when he laughed. No wonder then that McCree's breath hitched a little sometimes at the sight of him.

 

It was no big deal. It had happened before with other people, and no doubt would happen again. So maybe it happened around Hanzo rather a lot. So what? For a long time McCree's only company had been his own shadow or the bottom of a bottle, and now here he was, having to spend a lot of time around this gorgeous man – a man who was near his own age, who appreciated the art of a good shot, and who hadn't ever had to help hold back his hair as he puked up a night's worth of bad decisions. (That dubious courtesy fell to Genji.)

 

McCree only realized it was becoming a problem when he found himself waking in the middle of the night, his chest knotted in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar. He'd been dreaming, that was all. Couldn't even remember the dream, save that Hanzo had been in it and the two of them had been talking... and now here was Jesse, lying alone in his cold, hard bunk, with an ache in his heart like he'd lost something precious in waking.

 

Yes, Hanzo was pretty. But it wasn't just his looks that Jesse liked, was it? That was the problem.

 

* * *

 

_\--MEKA is compromised; repeat, MEKA is compromised, requesting immediate back-up!--_

 

Of course, once he'd realized this, McCree started noticing it all the time. Hanzo's strength, his skill, his dry, sardonic sense of humor. His quiet determination to be better. The way he was letting down his guard, slow and cautious but beautiful to behold. The lonely beast inside McCree was ravenous, and everything Hanzo did both fed it and made it hunger for more.

 

“Understood.” Hanzo looses his arrow and jumps up to the top of a shipping container. “Stay where you are, D.Va, I'm coming to you.”

 

Watching him tirelessly mow down Talon agents, shot after shot unhindered by the rain like the draw of his bow is effortless, would be incredibly distracting if the job didn't need McCree's full focus.

 

They're overrun.

 

McCree knew the mission had felt too easy. A shipment of experimental weaponry, with only two or three men to guard it? Talon are better than that. “Maybe we just got lucky,” Lena had hoped when Angela mentioned it, but to McCree it stank of a trap.

 

He hates when he's right.

 

They were halfway back to the carrier, slowed down by moving the payload, when Talon came swarming it seemed from every corner. The shipping yard was a maze of warehouses and stacked cargo containers and within minutes, despite Morrison's attempts to keep everyone in line, the team was quickly separated.

 

Alone for a second, McCree ducks into a shadow. Think. _Think._

 

Tracer went ahead to defend the carrier. Hanzo's gone after D.Va, leaving 76 and Mercy on the payload. He could go help them...or he could lower the odds.

 

No time to second-guess. He thumbs at his comm, switching off his outgoing transmissions, then turns and runs back the way he came.

 

If Talon's going to use Blackwatch rules, then so will he.

 

Time to break out the playbook.

 

The enemy is attacking from the east. He flanks, goes north, comes in from behind. The stragglers at the back aren't expecting him; they're easy to pick off. He lets his metal fist fly. A heavy left-hook breaks a nose – dodge, lunge, grapple – breaks a jaw. Turn the corner. Pistol-whip the man with the machine gun before he can open fire. The spur on the grip pulls out with a spurt of blood. Combat roll behind machine gun's buddy, force close-quarters, make like he's gonna throw a Haymaker, then feint. Use the move Hanzo taught him: quick trip of the feet followed by a blow to the chest. Enemy on the ground. Metal fingers round the throat, squeeze. Snap the neck.

 

He stops behind the wall of a warehouse. His teammates are still facing heavy opposition – in the distance he can hear Mercy's caduceus blaster and the distinctive sound of helix rockets. Ahead of him, in the yard around the corner, a group of Talon reinforcements wait to be called in.

 

He's in prime position.

 

A Peacekeeper she may be by name but she's no quiet little dove; his first shot draws all their attention right to him. He ducks back behind the wall for their answering fire, then darts out again – one shot, two, fan the hammer. Roll to reload. Fire again. Red swirls around his shoulders as he works, this deadly dance he knows so well. Disrupt and distract. The one-man force of justice. So easy to fall back into old habits.

 

They're calling into their own comms – his sudden appearance has alarmed them, thrown a wrench in their plans. Good. That means it's worked. He's done his job.

 

He reloads behind the cover of a crate. When he peeks over the top, the yard is full of Talon, more of them than when he arrived. In one swift movement, he stands. Raises his head, raises his gun. His vision tightens into black and white. Simple targets.

 

More shots ring out than just six.

 

McCree's shoulder explodes with pain. In the crucial few seconds where the world is whirling back into focus he staggers away, down an alley leading eastwards between the warehouses, towards the sea. Leading his pursuers away from his team. His right arm is blazing deadweight; he presses his metal palm against his shoulder and it comes away red. It was either luck or a very good shot – the bullet's hit the muscle right above his chestplate, may have shattered his clavicle, and trying to move his arm is agony. No way he can shoot like this.

 

Over his comm, his team are reuniting. The payload's almost at the carrier. They've noticed he's missing.

 

_\--McCree, status report.--_

 

Much as he'd like to, it's too late to reply. Getting himself into this situation was his decision, and his alone – either he gets himself out of it, or he doesn't. He's not going to endanger the others again just to save his own skin.

 

_\--McCree? Come in, McCree!--_

 

He twists and throws a flashbang to buy himself some time – which is when the stun baton comes cracking down on his injured shoulder.

 

Here's the thing about electrocution: it fucking sucks.

 

Every fibre of his body screams out in anguish, but McCree can only let out a helpless, involuntary whine, choking on the spasms of his throat. Time flickers and skips; he's down on the ground, curled over, limbs clenched and teeth gritted. He's dropped Peacekeeper. A heavy steel-toed combat-boot kicks her and she skitters away through the briny puddles.

 

“So you're the infamous McCree, huh?”

 

His assailant crouches in front of him. He's wearing a reflective visor, fancier than Talon's usual fare. It must have protected him from the blinding effects of the grenade. He stays there for a minute, watching McCree shake with residual shocks, before he huffs a laugh and gets to his feet.

 

_\--We're at the carrier. Waiting on you, McCree.--_

  

Blood and saliva drip from McCree's mouth. He closes his eyes. He's not going to make it. Can't speak to tell them – wouldn't anyway if he could. What would be the point? He's cornered.

  

He's going to die here.

 

The thought is strangely calm and quiet over the frantic fluttering of his heart. He's going to die here, but at least they're safe. At least.

 

_\--Where are you, cowboy?--_

 

It's just a shame, he thinks, watching with weary resignation as the remaining Talon agents, recovered from the flashbang, gather around his slumped body. They stand with their rifles primed, aiming steadily at him – but still wary not to come too close. Even like this, they're wise enough to fear him.

 

_\--We've lost contact; does anyone have visual?--_

 

The one with the visor bends and picks up Peacekeeper, shoves her disrespectfully into his belt. Through the blur in his eyes McCree feels a surge of righteous indignation. They can kill him all they want but how _dare_ they touch his gun–

 

The Talon soldiers laugh at him as he pushes to his feet, dragging himself shaking up the wall. His metal hand feels like the only part of him with any strength left, but if he's got to die here, then god damn it he's gonna do it stood upright.

 

_\--Returning to his last known location.--_

 

_\--Hanzo, wait, it might be another trap.--_

 

Visor lifts his hand and cocks his head. Listening. “Affirmative.” He waves at his men. “Alright, new orders: we're bringing this one in alive. Seems like Up High have taken an interest.”

 

_\--Hanzo!--_

 

McCree sags back against the bricks. His whole body wants to twitch, contort in on itself. Every stolen breath is a spasm of pain, but he can hardly focus on it. It's just such a damn shame. He's got so much unfinished business. So much he still wants to do. So much still to say. And Hanzo...

 

“Don't you worry, McCree.” The man's grin is hidden but it sounds like a wide, malicious thing. “It's your lucky day! Welcome aboard. We'll have you seeing things our way soon enough.” One of the others is clicking something into their gun, an attachment that looks oddly like the modifications on Ana's rifle. McCree can't quite make it out through the rain...

 

He feels a sharp prick in his thigh just as something pale streaks down from the sky, piercing the one with the weird gun right at the base of their throat. They fall. The world is blurring, warping at the edges, but from the corners of his vision McCree sees the Talon grunts move their weapons off him in unison and train them on the rooftops.

 

Brick scrapes against his armor. The rain patters down, blessedly cool on his heated skin. Then there's a shout – not in his ear but above him. A shout he knows well. A cry of ferocious Japanese.

 

The air crackles with electricity. The sky burns searing blue. All the hairs on his arm stand shivering to attention – and then comes the _roar._ Terrifying and otherworldly, a deep, cavernous call to war, a thousand nails on chalkboard all shrieking in perfect harmony. The beasts plummet from above, raging towards the earth like lightning from some vengeful god.

 

McCree's eyes water. He closes them against the heat, dizzy.

 

The light washes over him. He can hear screaming, but it's muffled, distant, like he's hearing it from underwater. As he drifts the light passes through him, and then it's gone, leaving only sunbursts behind his eyes, echoing silence and a strange, lingering feeling of peace.

 

He forces his eyes open to see Hanzo sliding down from the wall across from him.

 

“McCree?” He hurries over and drops his bow aside. “McCree, are you hurt?” He nudges his head up and pushes fingers under his jaw, checking his pulse. Then he leans in close, pushing into McCree's space, staring intently – probably checking his pupil dilation, but for a hot, delirious moment McCree can't help but wonder if he's going to kiss him. He's not imagining the way Hanzo's eyes flick to his lips, is he?

 

Before he can find out he's overcome with a wave of exhaustion. His knees buckle under him.

 

Hanzo braces him in alarm, and that's when he notices the blood under his serape. “Mc- You have been shot.”

 

McCree gasps a strangled laugh. “Yeah.”

 

“Sit down. Steady.” Hanzo helps settle him on the wet pavement and drops to his knees at his side. “This is Hanzo,” he barks into his comm. “I have McCree. He's been shot, and injected with – with _something._ He requires urgent medical attention.”

 

_\--Copy. I'm on my way.--_

 

Hanzo turns his attention back to McCree. He pushes down lightly on his chest. “McCree, don't try to move.”

 

“The team-”

 

“The team is fine. The objective is safe. As will you be, now I have found you.” Hanzo says it almost under his breath, as if he's talking to himself. He unbuckles McCree's chestplate with swift confidence, like he's done it hundreds of times before, then tears open McCree's shirts to get to his skin.

 

“Whoa, there.”

 

“Quiet. Stop moving.”

 

McCree's thoughts are swimming, like his whole consciousness has been diluted by the rain. Funny how it takes being shot for his words to come out easy. “Most fellas take me out someplace nice 'fore they get me naked.”

 

Hanzo's shoulders heave as he lets out a shaky laugh. It almost sounds like a sob. “You must allow me to make up the deficit later,” he says, quiet and rough.

 

Affection blooms under McCree's sternum, a great swell of it that sweeps through him, warmer than the blood he can feel seeping from his shoulder. “I'd like that,” he murmurs.

 

“We have an agreement, then. You will survive this, and when you are recovered I will buy you dinner.”

 

McCree can only watch, mind floating somewhere around admiring the set of Hanzo's face, grim with focused determination. “And after that?” he hears himself say. “Will y' give me a kiss g'night?”

 

Those beautiful dark eyes flick up to his, wide with surprise, before they soften. “Yes, I will.” Briefly, Hanzo touches the backs of his fingers to McCree's lips. Gentle. “Perhaps then you will be quiet.”

 

McCree smiles before a fresh surge of pain turns it to a grimace. He grits his teeth.

 

“Jesse, keep still.”

 

He would if he could, moving hurts, but his muscles are rebelling on him again. His chest is tight, his shoulder a jagged spike of agony as Hanzo presses a wadded cloth against the wound.

 

“Hanz...” he wheezes, strained and thin. “Can't-” Black spots cloud his vision. His lungs _hurt_.

 

“Jesse?” He grunts as Hanzo presses down harder. “Jesse!”

 

His voice is tight. Is he worried? McCree has the urge to comfort him, to crack a joke and make him smile, but he can't. When did he close his eyes?

 

“Jesse, stay with me. Mercy, I need you here _immediately_. He's barely breathing.”

 

_\--I hear you, Hanzo. Approaching your location now.--_

 

“Do you hear that, Jesse?” A strong hand cups his cheek, brushes the wet hair out of his face. “Help is almost here, just hold on. Stay with me.”

 

A shame, Jesse thinks, as the world turns dark. He hopes this doesn't stop Hanzo from loving the rain.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man, writing fight scenes when you know nothing about fighting is Tough -A-
> 
> this will have a happy ending, don't worry!


	2. Chapter 2

“Welcome back.”

 

Jesse grimaces and turns his head, trying to escape the light piercing his eyelids.

 

“Oops, sorry.” The light dims to bearable levels. “Is that better?”

 

He peels his eyes open slowly, wincing at the tug of grit crusting his lashes together. The cannula in his nose itches, the needles in his arms pinch, his throat feels like it's made of sandpaper. Hell, his whole body feels like he's taken a barrage of strikes from Reinhardt's rocket hammer.

 

Business as usual, then.

 

“Doc?” he croaks.

 

A blurry face appears above him, blonde and smiling. _“Guten morgen._ Nice of you to join us again. Are you planning to stay this time?”

 

Jesse swallows, tries to reply, but his throat cracks and spasms around the air.

 

Angela pats his hand. “Careful there, Jesse, try to relax. Let me get you a drink.”

 

She brings him a little cup of water and he knocks it back gratefully, before sinking back back (as much as is possible) into the thin medbay pillow. He lies there as Angela putters about, checking his vitals and making notes, and attempts to come to terms with being conscious again.

 

“How long was I out?” he asks, once he feels recovered enough to risk speech.

 

Angela glances at him from over the top of her tablet. “Three days, more-or-less. This is the first time you've awoken long enough to be aware. Do you recall what happened?”

 

Jesse sighs and closes his eyes. “..I was shot.”

 

“That's right. You also took a nasty hit from a stun baton.” She pulls up some charts from her tablet and flips through them. “The bullet tore through your anterior deltoid into the pectoralis major; you were fortunate it did not pierce your lung, but you still lost a significant amount of blood, and your body was exhausted from the electrocution. Luckily those were all relatively easy fixes. More concerning was the drug Talon darted you with.”

 

Jesse frowns. “I was drugged?”

 

“Yes, you were. You don't remember?”

 

He shakes his head. His brain still feels foggy; his memories of the mission after using Deadeye are hazy and indistinct. He remembers it was raining. He remembers being cornered. Definitely remembers being electrocuted. Hanzo was there at some point, he knows that – he doesn't think anyone could forget those dragons. But the rest escapes him, slipping from his attempts to grasp it.

 

Angela slides a tray of glass tubes from a white case and selects one of the vials. She holds it up for him to see. Inside swirls a strange, dark liquid, viscous and thick, shimmering opalescent under the halogen lights like spilled oil. “I ran some tests,” she tells him as Jesse squints at it. “Turns out it is some kind of tranquilizer, though if it has any other properties I have not yet discovered them.” She slots the vial away and locks the case. “But don't worry, Jesse. The dart hit you in your thigh; between your chaps and your jeans, the needle barely pierced your skin. A small amount injected into your subcutaneous fat, but we've flushed your systems and the amount in your bloodstream now is extremely minimal. It doesn't seem to have caused any adverse effects.”

 

Jesse sighs. “That's a relief, I guess.”

 

“It most certainly is.” Her smile is warm and bright. “I would like to keep you here for a few days for observation, just in case, but in the meantime...”

 

He sits up, curious, when she turns away and gestures at the door.

 

“..there is someone here to see you.”

 

Compared to Mercy's sunny demeanor Hanzo is a veritable storm cloud. He stalks into the room, tired-eyed but no less fierce for it, and scowls at Jesse.

 

“Well, I shall leave you to it. I'll just be in my office if you need anything, Jesse.” Angela picks up her tablet. As she passes Hanzo she touches his shoulder and says something quiet to him; Hanzo nods, but his gaze never leaves Jesse. The scowl doesn't waver.

 

The room falls into silence.

 

Jesse clears his throat.

 

“Er, howdy.”

 

Hanzo closes his eyes. He inhales a deep, slow breath through his nose, heaves it out again in a rush. He picks up a chair from the side of the room and carries it over to Jesse's bed, sits down, and crosses his arms over his chest. All without a word.

 

Jesse endures the silence for a full minute before he cracks.

 

“So are we not on speakin' terms, or...?”

 

Hanzo growls. “You turned it off.”

 

“..Beg pardon?”

 

“Your _comm_. You turned off your channel. Meaning no one could hear you, or locate you, or come to your aid when you needed it.”

 

“Oh, right.” Shit. Busted. “Yeah, it must've fritzed or somethin' when I got shocked-”

 

“Don't test me,” Hanzo snaps. “You turned it off yourself and you did so deliberately. Why?”

 

Great, an interrogation right after waking. Jesse's favorite. He sighs. “I couldn't risk any of you interferin'.”

 

If possible, Hanzo looks even less impressed. “'Interfering'.”

 

“That's what I said. Talon were usin' Blackwatch tactics, so...” he shrugs his good shoulder. “So did I. I knew what I was gonna do was dangerous, but I couldn't afford anyone tryin' to stop me. There was no time to argue about it.”

 

Hanzo leans forward. “But you forget something, Jesse. This is not Blackwatch. There are more valuable things than the mission – and you have a team to rely on. You are not a lone vigilante anymore, answerable only to yourself.”

 

“That's rich comin' from you,” Jesse bites. He regrets the comment as soon as he says it. Hanzo doesn't flinch save to blink, but it's enough of a tell that Jesse knows the words struck deep. “Look, the team is precisely why I did what I did. We were overrun. I took a gamble – a calculated risk, mind – and it worked, so--”

 

“And you almost lost your life because of it, or worse! It was pure chance I found you in time!”

 

Jesse opens his mouth, brow furrowed, but Hanzo isn't finished.

 

“Why do you think Talon took the trouble to have you stunned and drugged, instead of simply killing you outright?” He leans closer, chest pressing against the siderail of the medbay cot. “Because they wished to _take_ you. To convert you, twist you into something you are not. What do you think seeing you on the other side of the battlefield would do to your comrades here? Hm? How do you think they would fare, pitted against your gun and your brain? Had you considered any of these things before you ran off on your _hero mission?_ ”

 

By the time he finishes the plastic armrests are squeaking under his grip. Jesse can only watch him, exhausted. His chest aches.

 

“I followed what seemed the best course of action at the time,” he says. “I needed to draw fire away from the rest of you, quickly, and it worked. It may have saved Hana's life, or Mercy's. I ain't gonna apologize for that.”

 

Hanzo clenches his jaw and hangs his head. His tense shoulders slump. “I would not ask you to,” he mutters. “It would be hypocritical of me. But I must insist you take more care with your life. It is... important. To many people here.”

 

Jesse's heart twinges. “I won't disconnect from the comms again, alright? From now on I'll let y'all know what I'm doin' if I get any wild ideas. But I can't promise I won't act on 'em at all. I'm sorry, Hanzo, but I can't promise you that.”

 

Hanzo rubs his forehead and sighs, then nods slowly. “I suppose that will have to do.” He straightens and looks away, out of the window. “I apologize. This is not the conversation I wished to have with you when you woke.”

 

“No?” Jesse licks his dry lips. “What did you want to say?”

 

Hanzo turns back and quietly studies him. Despite himself, Jesse's heart starts to pick up, but after a minute Hanzo looks away again and absently shakes his head. “It does not matter. Now is not the time; I should let you rest.”

 

Still, he seems reluctant to leave. He stays sitting in his chair, his eyes roaming around the room, looking everywhere but at Jesse, before they land on the bedside cabinet. “Oh, yes, that reminds me,” he says as he reaches over to open the cupboard. “You will no doubt be glad to know that I retrieved your things.” He pulls out the battered brown Stetson, sets it on Jesse's lap and gives it a proud little pat. Just the hat is enough to make Jesse smile, but Hanzo reaches down again and pulls out a familiar leather holster. He passes it over.

 

“Peacekeeper.” Jesse wraps his fingers around her grip and holds tight, swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat. “You rescued her for me.”

 

“Of course I did.” Hanzo sits back and folds his arms again. “I'm afraid your serape is still in the process of being cleaned.”

 

“S'fine, darlin'. More than I could ask for.” The painkillers coursing through his veins have nothing to do with the lightness in his chest. He's grinning like a fool. “At this rate you're gonna give Reinhardt a run for his money.”

 

“What?”

 

“You're a real knight in shining armor, sweetheart.”

 

To his delight, Hanzo's cheeks burn pink. “Don't be absurd.”

 

“It's true! Saved me, saved my baby...”

 

Excited buzzing from Hanzo's phone saves him from his embarrassment. “What now,” he grumbles as he fishes it out of his back pocket. “Ah... Genji wants to know if you are willing to receive more visitors.” He flicks his eyes to Jesse, a silent question.

 

Jesse chuckles. “Sure, let him come. He'll just start climbin' the walls otherwise. Literally.”

 

Hanzo taps away. “He says he is already on his way. Typical.” His phone buzzes with another reply. Hanzo reads it and snorts, his lips quirking. “And it seems he will be bringing half the Watchpoint with him.”

 

“What, so soon? I just woke up.”

 

Hanzo glances at him, smile fading. “I can tell Genji if you are not ready. I am sure the others will understand.”

 

“Naw, it's fine. I'm fine. Just – word gets around quick, huh?”

 

“They have all been eager to see you well.” Hanzo taps out another message on his phone then slides it away. When he looks back his eyes are soft. “As I said, McCree, you are important to many people here.”

 

Jesse wants to ask, important to _you?_ but the words catch thick in his throat. By the time he can get his tongue unstuck Genji's bounding into the room, followed by Fareeha, then Reinhardt, carrying the most enormous bouquet of flowers Jesse's ever seen – and by then the moment's long gone. As more people file in Hanzo vacates his seat and shuffles out of the way. Lúcio and Lena, Zarya and Mei, Hana and Zenyatta and even Winston comes down from his labs to say hello, and soon enough Jesse's surrounded by their greetings and laughter, their relief, their joy that he's _okay_.

 

So many people. It's slightly overwhelming. He swallows and blinks, has to force down the wobble in his voice.

 

He manages to catch eyes with Hanzo over Torbjörn's head. Hanzo gifts him a full, warm smile, bows his head, and slips quietly out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Late that night, long after visiting hours when everyone – even Angela – has gone to bed, Jesse finds himself lying awake, staring at the blank white panels of the ceiling. He should be asleep, but it escapes him. A nagging feeling is keeping him up, a gut conviction that he's forgotten something important.

 

He asks Athena for the mission report; she projects it on the screen across from his bed and he reads through the entire thing, once, twice. Nothing about it is enlightening. Hanzo's report of finding and retrieving him is entirely professional, almost clinical – disappointingly so, though Jesse doesn't know what else he expected, or what he even hoped to find.

 

The sense memories swim, round and around in his mind. Rain dripping down his face. Burning pain in his shoulder. The dragons' roar, the light and heat passing through him, soothing...

 

Hanzo's face above him, brow furrowed, jaw firm, saying–

 

–saying something. Did he say something?

 

Did _Jesse_ say something?

 

He wishes he could remember.

 

* * *

 

Two nights later he's going stir-crazy. He fancies he can almost feel the muscles in his legs atrophying from not being used for close to a week, and as time passes he finds himself more agitated about the mission instead of less, certain that he's forgetting some crucial details. The fact that Hanzo's only ducked in to see him briefly – both times with either Hana or Genji at his side – doesn't help matters. Jesse still has no idea what Hanzo had wanted to discuss with him when he woke. The possibilities, both good and bad, shiver with restless anxiety just beneath his skin every time he thinks about it. Which is often.

 

Gingerly, he tests the movement of his shoulder. Only a twinge of pain. Not bad, so he swings his legs out of bed and rotates his ankles, bends his knees. Stiff, but that means a little stretch will do some good, right? Angela said she was probably going to release him tomorrow anyway, so going for a stroll a few hours earlier than technically allowed shouldn't do any harm.

 

Besides, his stomach's grumbling. Decision made, he tugs his now-clean serape on over his t-shirt and sweatpants and shuffles over to the door. It slides open and he steps out, blearily rubbing his eyes – and walks right into a warm, solid obstacle in his path.

 

“McCree?”

 

Hanzo blinks up at him. Wide-eyed with surprise, he's soft in rumpled sleep-pants and a hoodie, strands of his hair falling loose from the bun it's fastened in. The light of his phone's holoscreen highlights the sharp angles of his face with blue monochrome.

 

Jesse takes a moment to reboot. “Uh. Sorry, darlin'. Didn't mean to bump into you.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “It is fine.” He slips his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”

 

Jesse shrugs. “Same old. Couldn't sleep,” he mutters. “Too much time sittin' around immobile this past week, you know?”

 

“Yes. I know the feeling.”

 

“Anyway, I was headin' to the kitchen.” He pats his stomach. “Belly beast's got a case of the midnight munches.”

 

Hanzo snorts. “I see. Very well, I will make you something.”

 

“What? Naw, you don't gotta-”

 

“I insist. Come.”

 

They make their way to the kitchen. Hanzo bullies Jesse into a chair and pulls a small flask from his pocket. “Here.” He tosses it to Jesse. “ _Umeshu_. It is not harsh enough for your unsophisticated tastes, but you will take what you're given.”

 

 _Ain't that the truth._ Jesse grins. “Wouldn't dream of complainin'. Thanks, Han.”

 

Hanzo nods and goes to rummage in the fridge. Jesse takes a pull of the sweet plum wine, watching as Hanzo pulls out ingredients and starts building a thick, delicious-looking turkey sandwich: full of crisp lettuce, onion and tomato, topped liberally with spicy mayo and sliced peppers. Just the way Jesse likes 'em. He cuts the sandwich into neat halves and brings it over, sets it down in front of Jesse, and drops into the chair at the end of the table with a deep sigh.

 

“You alright?” Jesse asks.

 

“Hm? Yes, I'm fine.” He reaches up and pulls the tie out his hair. It falls, thick black streaked with silver, a lovely curtain to frame his lovely face. “It has been a long week, that is all.”

 

Jesse's fingers twitch traitorously before he wraps them safely around his sandwich. “Yeah, it sure has.”

 

“You are feeling better, I trust?”

 

“Much. Bit stiff and sore, but what else is new? I'll live.” He takes a bite of the sandwich and moans in appreciation. “Mmph, god, Han, this's the good shit.”

 

“Don't speak with your mouth full.” Hanzo props his elbow on the back of the chair and rests his hand on his hand. His eyes drift closed.

 

As Jesse eats he watches Hanzo from the corner of his eye. Hanzo's stretched out in his seat, his body turned towards Jesse – inviting, but it can't be intentional. His navy hoodie is a large size; it fits loose at his trim waist but still snug across the thickness of his shoulders and arms, and with his sleeves pushed up the face and upper body of his dragon tattoo are on full display, curled around his muscular forearm. The dragon shifts as Hanzo moves his hand, starts slowly combing his fingers through his hair so it drapes over one shoulder.

 

A show like that? Jesse's helpless to resist. “You got gorgeous hair,” he blurts. “Hope you don't mind me sayin'.”

 

“Thank you.” Hanzo run his fingers through the dark strands again, practically preening. “A work of discipline, as with many things. At one point it was almost down to my waist; I had to learn how to take care of it.”

 

“Your waist?” Jesse whistles. “Damn. Bet that was impressive.”

 

“Genji always teased me for it,” Hanzo says, with a wrinkle of his nose. “He said it made me look like a bad anime character. As if he was anything near a pinnacle of fashion in his youth.”

 

“Hardly one now, either. The man walks around with his ass out all the time.”

 

Hanzo lets out a bark of laughter and slaps his palm to his face. “Damn it,” he groans, “don't remind me.”

 

 _God you're stunning,_ Jesse thinks. He stuffs his mouth full of sandwich so he doesn't blurt that thought out loud too.

 

“Ah, well. Genji is who he is; some things never change.” Hanzo brushes his hair back again with another quiet little laugh. “But what about you, when you were young? I cannot imagine you without the cowboy accoutrements.”

 

Jesse swallows down his mouthful with a bit of difficulty. “Me? Always been the same, more-or-less. Had darker gear back in Blackwatch, 'cause Reyes was, uh, very particular about aesthetics, shall we say. But yeah, I've pretty much always been the fine spur-wearin' cowpoke you see before you today.”

 

“Have you ever considered growing your hair long?” Hanzo asks, a look in his eyes Jesse can't place.

 

“You know, I thought about it, when I was on the run. Don't think it'd suit me.”

 

“Do you not?”

 

“Nah. Can you imagine? I'd look like I'd walked off the set of a bad Van Helsing movie, or something.”

 

“As opposed to a Western, as you do now?” Hanzo snorts. “Surely it could not be worse than the blond.”

 

Jesse freezes. Hanzo's smirk turns distinctly devilish, curling up to expose his teeth.

 

“Who told you about-” Jesse starts. “No, lemme guess, it was–”

 

“Genji.”

 

“-Genji. Of course it was.” He pinches his nose.

 

“He showed me some pictures,” Hanzo continues gleefully. “Some of them were... most enlightening.”

 

“Great. Wonderful.” Jesse's cheeks are burning. He buries his face in his palm. “Not humiliatin' at all, no siree.”

 

At least the sound of Hanzo's laughter is a consolation. “It was for a mission, I suppose? A disguise?”

 

Jesse groans. “That's the worst thing about it. It wasn't at all.”

 

“No?”

 

“Naw. Did it 'cause... honestly, I don't rightly know why. Guess I just felt like a change.” He shakes his head and peeks at Hanzo between his fingers. “I regretted it as soon as I washed out the bleach. By then of course it was too late. I'm ashamed to say I almost begged off sick the next day 'cause I hated it so bad, I didn't want anyone to see me. Talk about over-reacting.”

 

Hanzo hums, rubbing his fingertips against the bristles of his undercut. “Genji cried when he first bleached his hair.”

 

Jesse drops his hand. “What, really?”

 

“Yes. I had to spend my whole evening consoling him through the bathroom door because he refused to leave.” He smiles at the memory. “But it was only the shock. A few days later he dyed it bright pink, and I don't think he returned to his natural color until...”

 

Until he was forced to.

 

He drifts into silence. A pinch forms between his brows as his eyes get lost in the middle distance. It doesn't take a genius to guess the dark place his thoughts have gone, so Jesse casts about for something distracting to change the topic.

 

The head of the dragon tattoo is still staring at him. At least that's one mystery he can get cleared up. “You know, I've been wondering something,” he starts. “About the mission.”

 

Hanzo blinks. He visibly drags himself back to focus on Jesse.

 

“At the end there, when you summoned your dragons, they passed right through me. How come they didn't hurt me at all? 'Cause they definitely hurt Talon.”

 

“Ah.” Hanzo frowns. “I should have known you would ask such a thing.”

 

“Don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable-”

 

“It is no trouble. Just let me find the right words.” Hanzo strokes his beard then weaves his fingers together in his lap. “We are linked, the dragons and I,” he explains, “in mind and in spirit. They understand my thoughts, my intentions. So, they follow my will.” He makes a face. “Usually.”

 

“Usually?”

 

“They still have minds of their own. On occasion – rare occasion – they disagree with me. I can force them to act anyway, but... I have not done so in a long time. I prefer not to.” He pauses. “Either way, you are my ally, and they know this. They would not harm you.”

 

“Huh. Well, that's good to know.” Jesse scratches his neck. “You'd think I'd be used to all this dragon business, having known Genji for going on a decade, but I still can't wrap my brain 'round it. It don't seem real.”

 

Hanzo smirks at him. “Were we enemies, and you their prey, they would be very real to you, I assure you.”

 

“I don't doubt it. But that's assuming you could send 'em on my tail before I put three bullets through your pretty face.” Hanzo acknowledges this with raised brows and a tilt of the head. Jesse grins. “Lucky for us we're on the same team, huh?”

 

“Yes. For you, particularly.”

 

“Don't get cute with me, Shimada.”

 

Hanzo's smile twitches up before it flattens into something unreadable. “Out of curiosity – how _did_ it feel? When they passed through you?”

 

“Hoo, boy.” Jesse leans back in his chair. “Don't know if I can describe it.”

 

“Try.”

 

Jesse thinks back through the mental fog. “Maybe this was just the rain,” he says, “or the blood loss, but it kinda felt like I was underwater, or... I dunno. Taking a dip in a warm bath. The pain, everything seemed... very far away. Like when you're lyin' cosy in bed at night when there's a storm ragin' on outside.” His voice drops, hushed. “Felt safe, I guess. Protected.”

 

Hanzo looks away. “I see,” he says quietly.

 

“It really was somethin' else. Kind of incredible. Can't believe you got all that power in you.” A risky subject, given the way the heady cocktail of painkillers, sleeplessness and Hanzo's company unsticks his tongue. The words slip out easy before he can bite them back. “You're amazing, you know that?”

 

“I am very accomplished, that is true,” Hanzo says lightly, before he drops his gaze to his tattoo and shakes his head. “But the power you speak of is not mine. It is theirs.” He brushes his fingertips over the scales. “A gift they granted me; one I share with many of my forebears. Only a happenstance of my birth.” He looks up again, right into Jesse's eyes. “I am not the remarkable one in this room.”

 

Jesse shifts in his chair. “I'm just a man with a gun,” he says, poking at the crumbs on his plate. “Ain't nothin' special about me.”

 

“That is blatantly untrue.” Jesse's expression must show his disbelief, because Hanzo draws up straight from his relaxed slump and continues. “You are an impressive man, Jesse McCree.” His voice is pitched so low. “Brave, and skilled, and loyal, and frankly far too clever for your own good. Is it really so surprising that I admire you?”

 

So typical of Hanzo, to catch him off his guard like this, blunt and without warning. To leave him feeling so exposed. Jesse's hyper aware of his heartrate picking up, thudding louder in his ears. He doesn't know if this is really what it sounds like – it can't be, surely, but...

 

Hanzo sits forward at the edge of his seat and balls his hands on his knees. “I apologize if in saying this I am crossing a boundary,” he says, “but I must – Jesse. The mission. We... spoke. After you were shot, after I found you. Do you remember what you said?”

 

He can only shake his head.

 

“We agreed that I owed you dinner. Compensation, for ruining your clothes.” He flicks his eyes across to Jesse's empty plate and huffs a small laugh. “Though I doubt this is what you had in mind.”

 

Now he looks up. Grip tightening on his knees, he licks his lips. Might be the first time Jesse's ever seen him so openly nervous.

 

“And we agreed...” A deep breath. “We agreed that I should kiss you.”

 

_Oh._

 

Jesse's shocked into silence. He's not sure he's breathing; not sure he needs to. He's been stunned into another plane of existence.

 

“Is that still something you would want? ..Jesse?”

 

Jesse reaches out. Brushes his fingertips against the back of Hanzo's hand.

 

Hanzo stares. Slowly, he turns his wrist, and takes Jesse's hand with his own. Clasps their palms close. Gun callouses against those from a bow. He bows his head, brings Jesse's hand to his lips; presses them, chapped yet still soft, so warm, against the dry, bruised skin across his knuckles.

 

Jesse's lungs are forgotten for his heart, bounding loud and thunderous in his throat. He's too entranced by Hanzo kissing the backs of his fingers, his wrist, his palm.

 

No one has ever touched him like this. No one.

 

“Hanzo,” he wheezes.

 

Hanzo glances up. His eyes are so deep they're almost black. “Is that a yes?”

 

“Is it a – god, _yes,_ darlin', come here--”

 

The legs of Hanzo's chair shriek painfully against the floor as he surges forwards. Jesse doesn't even notice. How could he, with Hanzo's breath on his lips? With his tongue tracing hot and eager over the seam of his mouth, slipping inside to twine with his own? With his trim beard scratching against Jesse's overgrown scruff? How could he notice anything else when Hanzo's free hand is digging into his hair, angling him close, pulling a moan from deep inside his chest?

 

He loses all track of time. Hanzo doesn't pull back until he's been thoroughly devoured, and when he does he's panting. Dazed, Jesse licks his lips. They taste of plum wine.

 

Strong archer's fingers squeeze his hand, stroke his hair. “Is that what you wanted?” Hanzo asks.

 

Jesse nods wordlessly.

 

Hanzo's smile is hot and pleased. He drags the backs of his fingers down Jesse's cheek, brushes over his sensitive, tingling lips. “How interesting,” he murmurs. “It seems this does make you quiet after all.”

 

Jesse laughs breathlessly. “Don't need the kisses for that,” he rasps. “Feels like I'm tripping over my own damn tongue every time I see you.”

 

“Is that so?” Hanzo strokes his thumb back-and-forth against the grain of Jesse's beard. “How flattering. All the same, I would like to test my theory once more. To be sure, you understand.”

 

“By all means,” Jesse whispers, and closes his eyes as Hanzo leans back in.

 

* * *

 

 “McCree, I think you have washed that enough.”

 

“Hm?” Jesse blinks and glances down at the mug he was rinsing. Hot water is overflowing, spilling over its rim on to his hands. “Oh, right.”

 

Getting their feelings out in the open does wonders in curing the problem. By the time Angela's cleared Jesse for active duty the loneliness that used to curdle sour in his chest is as long-gone as the wound in his shoulder, tamed by Hanzo's affection. But it turns out knowing those feelings are reciprocated comes with its own set of symptoms. Now, every time Jesse's around Hanzo (or looks at Hanzo, or talks to Hanzo, or, hell, just _thinks_ about Hanzo), instead of a tight, aching lurch, he feels... _floaty_. Lighter than air.

 

Genji reaches over and takes the mug from his grasp, starts drying it with an old fraying excuse for a tea towel. “You are very unfocused today. What has your head so high in the clouds?”

 

Jesse hums to himself. He dumps the next pile of plates into the sink full of soapy water and starts scrubbing them down.

 

“McCree?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I heard ya.”

 

Every laugh Jesse coaxes from Hanzo's lips, every secret smile, every time the archer pushes him against a wall and kisses the breath out of him, every time he softens at Jesse's touch – it all leaves Jesse fizzing, fuzzy; warm and fluttery like the proverbial butterflies.

 

The sigh that escapes him is almost embarrassingly dreamy. “Your brother-”

 

“On second thought, I do not wish to know.”

 

“-is an amazing kisser, did you know that?”

 

“I regret everything.”

 

Jesse grins. “And his _hands..._ ”

 

Genji makes a strangled noise and drops his cloth. “Help!” he gasps, clutching the edge of the countertop as he pretends to gag. “I need healing-!”

 

Jesse flicks water at him. Genji retaliates.

 

When their spat is over Jesse has foam coating his beard and Reinhardt's enormous chicken-print oven mitt is stuck on Genji's head like a crown.

 

“So.” Genji balls up the now-soaked tea towel and takes a clean one from the drawer. “You and Hanzo, you truly are...”

 

Jesse smirks. “You sure you want to hear the answer to that?”

 

“Yes, actually.” His serious tone gives Jesse pause. Even with idiotic headgear, Genji can be damn intimidating when the mood strikes him. Sensing his hesitation Genji holds up a hand peacefully. “Do not misunderstand, McCree; I am not upset, simply curious. I thought you were determined to dislike him, and yet...”

 

“A man's allowed to change his mind, ain't he?” Jesse wipes the bubbles from his face. “Hanzo... is the way he is, you know, and I...” He shrugs. “I honestly don't know what to tell you, Genji. It just happened.”

 

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Genji says, adjusting the oven mitt so it sits more securely on his head. “Hanzo speaks of you often. More so than anyone else, except maybe Hana.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“He has grown quite fond of you.”

 

Jesse flushes with heat. He busies his hands again with scrubbing. “Yeah, well. Feelin's mutual.”

 

“I'm glad.”

 

“..You are?”

 

“That my brother should find happiness with one of the best men I know? Of course.” Genji chuckles at Jesse's burning face and presses his palms together. “Though I would be very grateful if you never told me any details. Please.”

 

“Not plannin' to. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.”

 

“That's a relief. Oh, but while we're on the subject, McCree.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

There's a large kitchen knife on the draining board. Genji picks it up, wipes the cloth with excruciating slowness up its sharp edge. “You like having two balls, right?”

 

Jesse stills. “..Kind of attached to 'em, yeah.”

 

Genji balances the knife by its tip on the end of his finger, then spins it round the back of his hand and into his palm. He points it at Jesse.

 

“Alright, alright!” Jesse lifts his hands in surrender. “Threat received, loud and clear.”

 

“Good!” Genji puts the knife aside and pats Jesse's shoulder – beaming, the little shit. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

 

* * *

 

Lips trail down Jesse's stomach, followed by the hot, tickling touch of a tongue that laves over his body hair, leaves it wet and curling. Jesse groans and twitches, trying to keep his hips still so he doesn't buck up and grind against Hanzo's neck.

 

He should've known Hanzo would be as intense between the sheets as he is anywhere else. Jesse's been lying here for how long he doesn't know – could be minutes, could be _weeks,_ he ain't exactly been keeping count. He's been reduced to a panting, incoherent mess, just a soggy lump of longing laid out on Hanzo's bed like a feast.

 

And how Hanzo has been feasting.

 

There's not a single part of him that Hanzo hasn't touched by now, save where he's aching for him most. Jesse's gonna wake up tomorrow looking like he's gone six rounds with an octopus, given the number of marks that have been sucked into his skin, that he can feel burning and throbbing with the beat of his heart – and Hanzo's hands have travelled even more than his mouth. He's stroked them appreciatively over every inch of Jesse's skin, mapping with a cartographer's passion all his scars and flab and pockmarks, all the signs of his knock-down life.

 

It might have left him feeling just a touch emotional.

 

Hanzo mouths down, down; detours into the valley of his hip, the _tease,_ and on further, leaving a fresh pattern of sharp little nips across his sensitive inner thigh. He switches legs, lifts Jesse's ankle to his mouth to scrape it with his teeth as he scrapes his blunt nails through the hair on Jesse's shin. It tickles. Jesse kicks out on reflex; Hanzo huffs a laugh and lets him go so he can push Jesse's knees apart and crawl up between them. Then, finally, he ducks his head, and closes his lips around Jesse with a hot, hard suck.

 

Lightning races up Jesse's spine. He arches, tipping his head back into the pillow with a loud moan.

 

“ _Fuck,_ Hanzo...”

 

Hanzo glances up under his lashes, his dark eyes molten, his lips pink and swollen. One last slow swipe of his tongue and he sits back, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist and snatching up the condom.

 

A minute later he's sinking down into Jesse's lap with a low, pleased hum. Jesse curses under his breath as Hanzo circles his hips. All his movements are controlled but languid, luxuriating in his own satisfaction. He cups Jesse's hand on his cheek with his own and mouths at it, kisses the palm, slowly sucks two fingers into his clever mouth and flicks his tongue between them.

 

Jesse chokes. His eyes squeeze shut.

 

Hanzo laughs quietly. “Getting tired already, gunslinger?”

 

When Jesse doesn't respond – too overcome by sensation, the knowledge that it's _Hanzo_ reared above him – Hanzo slows his rocking. “Jesse?” He bends forward and brushes away the hair stuck to Jesse's sweaty forehead.

 

“'M fine,” Jesse gasps. He peels his eyes open again to meet Hanzo's, hovering concerned above him. “Just – holy _hell,_ sweetheart.”

 

Hanzo chuckles. He leaves a wet kiss on Jesse's jaw and sits up again.

 

“Come on then, cowboy.” He pats Jesse's thigh. “Make me feel it.”

 

He grips him tight and rolls his hips, and all Jesse's thoughts flitter away in a haze of bliss.

 

* * *

 

“You take my breath away sometimes, you know that? You really do.”

 

Just because Hanzo leaves him all twitterpated doesn't mean McCree's completely lost his touch. He's found, much to his delight, that if he times it well he's just as capable of flustering Hanzo as Hanzo is of flustering him. If he pitches his voice right, gives him those ol' bedroom eyes, says something real sweet and real sincere... well. Hanzo ain't made of stone.

 

He turns the loveliest colors. Makes the sweetest little face.

 

Like now, for instance.

 

His lips are parted, his dark eyes wide, and the pink has gone right down his neck and up into his ears. Jesse grins, smug. “What's the matter, honey? Cat got your tongue?”

 

Hana finally rips out an earbud and sighs in exasperation. “Do you guys have to do this in public? Some of are trying to _exist_ , here.”

 

Hanzo closes his mouth and shoots him a look, half promise, half reproach. Okay, so Jesse may have cheated, saying such things in the rec room instead of in private, but it's only Hana in here with them. He wanted to make Hanzo feel all fluttery, after all, not outright embarrass him. “How can I not say these things when I'm faced with such a sight?” he replies, as Hana glares at him over the back of the couch. He grabs Hanzo's hand and holds it to his chest. “The most beautiful man I ever saw.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “No,” he says, quiet and serious.

 

“Oh, but you are-”

 

“No, it is not possible.”

 

Slivers of both sadness and determination coil in Jesse's chest; he prepares once again to battle Hanzo's self-contempt. “Darlin'-”

 

“How could that be true,” Hanzo continues, “when you see yourself in the mirror every day?” He looks up, a wide smile spreading his lips when he sees Jesse gaping down at him.

 

“Wow,” says Hana, after a short, stunned pause. “GG. That was actually really smooth. Like, play of the game material.”

 

“Thank you.” Hanzo nods at her, so damn pleased with himself, then looks back up, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What was that you were saying, Jesse, about taking your breath away? ..Jesse?”

 

Hana leans over the back of the couch and pokes Jesse's arm. “I think you broke him.”

 

Jesse's breath shudders from between his slack lips. He tugs his hat down to cover his blush. “Shut up, I'm fine,” he insists, painfully aware of how winded and unconvincing he sounds. “Always got to have the last word, don't you, hon.”

 

Hanzo's smile tilts and he shrugs, a touch self-conscious yet utterly unrepentant. “How could I not? Your reactions are always so charming.”

 

Jesse pulls him closer, wrapping his metal arm around Hanzo's waist. “You're lucky you're so cute,” he growls.

 

“I am, am I?”

 

“..Aaaand they're back to being gross. Great.” Hana shoves the earbud back in her ear with great vehemence. “Please do us all a favor and go be adorably in love somewhere else, thanks.”

 

Jesse freezes. _In love_. That isn't – they haven't –

 

It's not a topic either of them have broached, not yet. But Hanzo squeezes the hand he's still holding, and when Jesse looks over he smiles and tugs him down for a kiss.

 

They're just getting a good rhythm going when a cushion connects at high velocity with the side of his head. It knocks his hat askew. “Wha- Hey!”

 

“What, did you think I was kidding?” Hana scowls at him, affronted. “Get a room!”

 

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Hanzo grins when Hana groans and shoves her face into a cushion. “Don't you agree, Jesse?”

 

Jesse grins right back. “Never heard a plan better,” he replies, and laughs as Hanzo pushes him backwards out the room.

 

* * *

 

The door slides open with a quiet hiss. McCree almost stumbles over the threshold, barely manages to catch himself before he gets brained on the hard floor. That'd sure be a hell of a way to end the hellish, lonely week he's had.

 

He hangs his hat on its peg on the wall, struggles out of the stranglehold of his serape then glares balefully down at his chestplate. So many buckles. Doesn't have the hand-eye coordination for this bullshit right now, he thinks as he half-heartedly plucks at its fastenings.

 

Exertion has left him starved but he's too nauseous to contemplate eating; he's exhausted, but his brain's still running ragged, sowing dark thoughts like seeds across the fertile soil of his tired mind. Some companionship would distract him from sitting up tending them all night, but a good part of him wants to wallow. He ain't good company like this. People like spending time with the good-natured cowboy. Not Deadeye. No one should be forced to put up with him when his past feels like it's peering its bloodied eyes right over his shoulder.

 

Finally he undoes the last buckle and shrugs off his armour. He drops it down by the wall – he'll tidy it up later. It hits the floor with a loud thud.

 

Something rustles behind him.

 

His gun is out and aimed before he's even aware of turning round. Milliseconds stretch for an age as his right eye burns, his lungs turn to ice – and then his brain catches up, cataloguing the form through the dark.

 

His pulse beats free again, thawing on a surge of relief. He sags back against the wall.

 

Hanzo, oblivious, just sighs quietly in his sleep. Held only by a lax grip, the book lying face-down on his chest is threatening to slip off. His neck's at an awkward angle, squishing his cheek into the pillow and pushing his lips out into a funny fish-like pout, and he's drooling, just a bit. Jesse grins. Real dignified.

 

He pulls off his boots and pads across the room.

 

“What're you doin' here, huh?” he says quietly, crouching by the bed to get a better look at Hanzo's face. He's mighty tempted to snap a picture of it to send to Genji. “You're a ninja even when you're sleepin'. Didn't notice you were here, darlin'. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

 

Hanzo wrinkles his nose and shifts again, rolling further on to his side. Jesse rescues the book before it can fall and marks Hanzo's place with a scrap of cigarette paper, then sits back on his heels. He should be dragging himself to the shower, washing off the malaise of the mission, not sitting here like a creep watching Hanzo sleeping, but he can't help himself. Hanzo looks so much younger when his face is smooth, free of its usual lines and tension. He looks peaceful. Untroubled. For once he must be having peaceful dreams.

 

There was a moment – not too long after their little sparring session, when they'd thawed to each other some – when it first occurred to Jesse that Hanzo was a _person_ , prey to the same sadness and fears as anyone else. Sounds silly to think of now – no shit, right? – but for almost a decade Jesse had thought of Shimada Hanzo in terms of what he represented and nothing more: Yakuza lord; the Man Who Hurt Genji; That Fratricidal Son-of-a-B. It was only recently that he'd begun to let those ideas go.

 

This particularly occasion he'd crept into the kitchen at gone 3am needing something to settle him. What he found was Hanzo, his back to the door as he stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

 

Jesse did the friendly thing. He padded over to say hello.

 

He was six feet away when Hanzo suddenly spun and lunged at him.

 

“Whoa!” Jesse held up his hands and backed off, nerves firing. “Easy there, archer!”

 

Hanzo jolted, wide-eyed. He blinked, then dropped the fork he was brandishing down on the countertop. “My apologies,” he muttered.

 

Now he'd turned round Jesse could see the dark circles under his reddened eyes, the film of sweat across his skin. He was holding so much stiffness in his shoulders it almost hurt to look at him.

 

The parts of Jesse that were still soft, despite life's best attempts, twinged and ached in sympathy. He could relate.

 

“'S'alright,” he said, slowly lowering his arms. “No harm done. You okay?”

 

Hanzo nodded. He turned his back again as the kettle finished boiling and clicked off. “You are surprisingly quiet without your boots and spurs,” he rasped, pouring some water into his cup. “I did not hear you.”

 

Jesse looked down at his socked feet and wiggled his toes. “I weren't covert ops for nothin'.” He watched Hanzo dip a teabag into his water, then grabbed a mug for himself off the draining board. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Hanzo was reluctant, but he agreed. They didn't talk much that night, but it seemed they both found even silent company was better than dealing with what plagued them alone – and so it happened again, and again, until it was something of a routine for them to meet in the middle of the night. A routine that, somewhere along the way, became a friendship; a friendship that's led to _this._

 

The Hanzo of that night was a stark contrast to how he is now, curled up on Jesse's bed. He's lying on top of the covers; he must've come here to wait for Jesse's return, must've fallen asleep still reading. Carefully, Jesse reaches out and brushes back the lock of silky hair that's fallen over his face. So gentle, but Hanzo still twitches at the touch of cold metal fingers. His brows draw in tight.

 

“Easy, honey, easy.” Jesse draws his hand back to safe range as Hanzo's eyes snap open. “It's only me.”

 

Hanzo hums and relaxes, his eyelids slipping back closed. He lifts his hand and pats at Jesse's arm, tugging his hand back down to his hair. Jesse chuckles and obediently resumes stroking.

 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean to wake you.”

 

Hanzo smiles. “Jesse,” he murmurs, soft and heavy with sleep. “ _Okaeri._ ”

 

_Welcome home._

 

Just like that, the heavy weight of anxiety that's been suffocating him this past week loosens. Dread and self-loathing retract their claws and slip away. Not forever – they'll be back again one day – but for now he knows this: Hanzo is here. Safe and secure enough in Jesse's space to let his guard down. To fall asleep. The evidence that, if nothing else, at least Jesse makes the world a better place for just this one man. Maybe that's enough.

 

He nudges in close. Kisses Hanzo's pillow-warm cheek.

 

The right response escapes him – it's right there on the tip of his tongue – but Hanzo doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his hand around the back of Jesse's neck, completely uncaring of the way death follows him like a shroud, tangles his fingers into his hair and holds him close. The tips of their noses brush.

 

Jesse breathes in deep and smells them both.

 

“ _Tadaima,”_ he whispers into Hanzo's skin.

 

_I'm home._

 

* * *

 

Last night it stormed something fierce. The asphalt of the Watchpoint's landing pad still shimmers with rain that hasn't yet evaporated under the heat of the sun, and the air feels clear and fresh, not a trace of humidity.

 

McCree takes one last drag of his cigarette and pinches it out, pocketing the stub to dispose of later. He blows the smoke out in a ring, watches as it drifts up into the bright blue sky.

 

It's a beautiful day.

 

When he was young – must've been about six or seven years old, long before _Jesse McCree_ was the name he'd started going by – he made his mother laugh.

 

He remembers the moment clearly: the cramped galley kitchen with the peeling, grease-stained wallpaper; the pale blue flowers printed on his mother's skirt; her scent, warm and earthy under the chemical tang of the cleaning products she used for her jobs.

 

The rich, hearty rhythm of her melodic laughter.

 

Most days he can barely recall her face, but he'll never forget that sound.

 

He doesn't remember what it was he said that she found so funny, but he remembers the pride he felt. Even at so young an age he'd been aware of the stress she was under, aware of the danger that surrounded them. They'd been forced to move from apartment to shittier apartment as the devastation of the Crisis crawled ever closer, and it paid a heavy toll. He was glad to lighten her heart, even if it was only for a short while.

 

He remembers what she said to him. A charmer, she called him. _You have a silver tongue, Jessito, my sweet, clever boy. But more importantly, you have a good heart._ She knelt down, stroked his hair behind his ear and cupped his cheek in her warm palm. Smiled. _You have a good heart. Don't ever lose sight of that, okay?_

 

 _I won't,_ _mamá._ _I promise._

 

Big words for a seven year old. A promise he had no hope of keeping.

 

He checks the belts around his hips: flashbangs – check; ammo – check. Peacekeeper strapped safe to his thigh – check.

 

_One day you will find someone who likes you for more than your pretty words. When you are silent or sad or tripping over your own tongue, they will still be there. You could not say a word and they will still understand. Just remember to let them in when they find you._

 

He wonders what she'd say to him, if she could see him now. Could see him going off to try and do some good in the world, with a team of friends waiting for him in the carrier ahead, with his partner in every sense of the word at his side.

 

There was a long period of his life he suspects she wouldn't've been proud of him.

 

He thinks she would be now.

 

He swirls his serape to its rightful place around his shoulders and turns to his companion. “Ready, hon?”

 

Hanzo finishes adjusting his quiver belt and picks up his bow. “As always.” He looks up with a hot, sharp smile. “Are you?”

 

“You know it.”

 

“Then let us go.”

 

He turns and heads for the dropship. McCree sets his hat on his head, takes a deep breath of fresh sea air, and follows.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! i was ill for about 3 weeks and had no energy for anything except sleeping and playing Stardew Valley, but this is fiiiinally done.   
> you know when i started this fic i expected it to be like 5k max?? lmao welp. that didnt happen, obviously!
> 
> anyway thanks for reading! you guys are the best x


End file.
